Damascus Gate
by Thethuthinnang
Summary: BtVS.HP. The prophecy, as most prophecies are, was incomplete.
1. Chapter One

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Harry Potter belong to their respective creators, Joss Whedon and J.K. Rowling.

Author's Warning: major AU.

Author's Note: I wrote this back in '04 and abandoned it when my hard drive exploded, taking with it all ten chapters I had written as well as my will to live. Recently, however, I've managed to recover enough off of a portable hard drive I didn't know I still had to make reconstructing the story not quite as painful as chewing glass. In the spirit of finishing everything I have going on before I start something new (and to stop running the risk of Gloriana murdering me in my sleep), I've come back to this project and am not quitting until it's done! (This doesn't mean I'll stop working on the other incomplete stories, just that I'm focusing on this one.)

P.S. Gloriana, I am totally kidding. You know I cower in abject fear of/worship you.

This is for WittyNinja, whom I beg not to hold against me the fact that I am seven months late.

* * *

September in London was dark, cold, and wet.

Buffy pulled at the front of her coat, tightening the damp leather against her body. Behind her, the glass-shattering screech of a train whistle briefly overwhelmed the thrum of the rain against the roof. Over the crowd and the rattling engines of trains trundling in and out of King's Cross, she could hear each rolling boom and thunderpeal of the storm that had blown in with the plane that had carried her from New York, the howl of the wind that shook the windows. Electric lights flickered weakly again and again.

In front of her was a brick wall.

She stared at the wall. The few people who noticed her as they passed by, noticed the girl in the black duster, her hair slicked wetly against her face and neck, could see her fingers digging into the sleeve of one arm.

Frowning, Buffy unfolded her arms and reached for the large duffel lying at her feet, slinging it over a shoulder. Glancing behind her, to the left and the right, she turned to the wall again, and her heel lifted a quarter of an inch off of the floor before she hesitated, expression breaking, uncertainty filling her eyes. Three seconds, looking, mind beginning to change—

Gritting her teeth, Buffy took a deep breath and hit the wall.

For a heart-wrenching moment, everything was a black nothing. Then—_cold air_—she was walking out of a large, damp-smelling tunnel into a different light, the fainter, softer light of lanterns and open ceilings, and overhead there was a sign that said _Platform Nine and Three-Quarters_. She was passing through a metal archway, and nearly tripped over an orange tomcat. Buffy slowed, stopped, eyes widening and the tension easing from her jaw.

The smell was of wet brick and cement, the light a watery, eggshell blue. White steam sluiced off of what looked, at a distance and in the weak light, like a black train, wrapping everything and everyone in a low, muted gray, as if the people were drifting ghosts. Everybody seemed to know everyone else, and cries and murmurs she didn't try to make out washed over her like a cold shower, faceless, nameless shapes calling to each other in the gloom. A tiny girl clutching a cage with a ruffled brown owl in it rushed by, her black cloak fluttering behind her. Ten feet away, a heavily-built man with thinning black hair was giving his son what sounded like last minute advice, warning him to not "give your teachers any trouble, I don't want any more owls from your Head of House." He wore flowing red robes, his son black.

Buffy stood there, thinking _It_ can't _be this easy…_

"Gives us a look, then…"

"…was at the Cup, bloody brilliant win—"

"—see what happened after—"

"—you, Mick, get that ruddy owl under—"

"…not this time, got my Potions right here—"

"—who's that?" A boy in a black robe was pointing at her, pulling on the sleeve of a much taller young man to get his attention. The man turned, looking straight at Buffy, blue eyes meeting hers. Buffy moved forward, turning her head as if she had not seen, edging closer to the rails.

Nearer, the train was red, not black, still gushing cloudy smoke and dripping as if it had just pulled in from the downpour. Beneath the washed-out light of a morning filled with wind and lightening, the red bled and darkened to blood. She stared at it, this sudden normalcy.

A tall man in immaculate black robes and cloak was walking up the length of the train. Where he went, the crowd opened up as if pushed aside, the people moving easily and without complaint as if by happenstance. Their eyes seemed to slide away from him as if he weren't even there, their voices roiling around him.

The man's hair was long and white.

The crowd was thickening, the fog beginning to clear. The man turned, looked toward the entrance.

Cold gray eyes rested on her face.

A strange, sick feeling filled Buffy's body. She turned away as nonchalantly as she could, ignoring the cold sweat that had broken out on her skin, and started to walk off down the length of the wall, ignoring the rising bile, ignoring the people she was shoving, ignoring the fact that the white-haired man had changed his course, was coming straight for her, the people shifting unasked and patiently out of his way without so much as looking at him where she had to push.

The archway was near enough. She'd go back through, she'd get out of the station, she would—

An elbow struck her in the arm. Her chin hit the end of a shoulder-bone. The duffel swung from her shoulder, pulling her off balance, and thumped to the floor.

"Whoa!"

Someone grabbed her arm.

"Bit of a hurry?" a male voice asked, shaken with repressed laughter. The fingers on her arm were rough and callused, the skin abraded in places as if there had once been burns.

Buffy looked up.

Blue eyes widened. A look of cheerful good humor slipped into something more disbelieving, something on the edge of shock. His fingers tightened, the touch a grip, for no more than a split second before he let go, the hand lowering.

Buffy took her hand off of the hilt of her knife.

"All right, then?" the man asked, abruptly gruff. His hair, Buffy saw, was red, the same red as—

_No._

"What is it, Charlie?" a woman's voice asked impatiently. "We haven't got all—"

Behind the man, Charlie, stood a middle-aged red-haired woman, who herself was staring at Buffy. Two boys, identical, also red-haired, stood beside her, next to a much smaller girl about Buffy's height. Another man, even taller than Charlie, his long red hair pulled back, was leaning against the wall.

"Who're you, dear?" the woman asked, clearly taken aback.

Buffy didn't answer, but turned to look behind her.

The crowd moved and shifted toward the train, children and young people beginning to climb aboard in groups. The platform was a turmoil of trunks, cages, animals, people, robes, and loose ties. The whistle shrilled again, and pewter smoke filled the air.

The white-haired man was gone.

Buffy stood still, trying to slow her breathing. She swallowed a mouthful of air and drying saliva. Were her hands trembling?

"Oy," someone said. It was one of the look-alikes, the one wearing a large sweater with the letter F on the front. "You all right?"

They were still watching her, the woman's eyes concerned.

"Uh, yeah," she said. "Yeah, I'm fine, thanks."

The other boy, who'd just picked up her suitcase, raised an eyebrow. "A Yank?"

"Fred!" the woman—his mother, Buffy guessed—warned, but eyed Buffy just as curiously. "Are you here with someone?"

"No," said Buffy. "No, I…uh…"

The tallest man, the one with long hair, had picked up her suitcase, was holding it out. Feeling slightly embarrassed to be standing there holding a handle but no suitcase, she took it hurriedly back.

"Thank you," she said awkwardly. "I…thank you. Um..." Buffy hesitated, couldn't think of anything else to say.

Charlie was looking at her. They were all looking at her.

"Bye," she said finally, ineptly, and walked away, hurrying, before anyone could say anything else, losing herself in the crowd.

It was getting colder. High on the roof, the rain came down in sheets. The whistle blew a third, more urgent time, and the last few stragglers were getting on, struggling through hugs and last minute news.

Buffy stood where she found herself, in the far, darker corner of the station, barely inside out of the rain. Indecision made her pause. Should she get on the train, even if no one was there for her? Should she just stay there, waiting for whatever? Or maybe she should just forget about it, just get out while she still could, to hell with what the old man had said, check into the nearest and cheapest motel and—

"Buffy Summers?"

Buffy stopped almost mid-step to the exit and looked up.

The man standing there in front of her was breathing heavily, as if he'd been running. His face was drawn with exhaustion, pale and thin. He looked maybe as bad as Buffy felt, and his gray robes were clean but tattered, much-mended. In the white haze, he was gaunt, hollows beneath his cheekbones and the skin beneath his eyes smudged purple. He looked as if he hadn't slept in weeks.

"I don't know you," said Buffy. At that, the man straightened, breath regained, and stepped forward, closer, into the light of a nearby lantern.

His eyes burned yellow.

"My name is Remus Lupin," he said, very quiet, very English, only slightly breathless. "I am here on behalf of Albus Dumbledore to see you to Hogwarts."

Buffy looked at him.

He met her eyes. They stood there, looking at each other.

After a moment, he offered a smile. "Please, allow me," he said, and reached for the suitcase she was carrying in both arms.

Buffy took one step back.

He stopped, arm in the air, watching her, and then took back his hand.

"I've already got seats," he said, as if nothing had happened. "Behind the prefects. Some friends of mine are waiting for us there." Remus nodded toward the front of the train. "We should hurry."

Buffy didn't say or do anything. He only turned to go.

He hurried, and Buffy had to be quick to keep up with his longer-legged frame. He was pushing people aside as he rushed, muttering apologies over his shoulder, but no one got angry and most stepped aside for them, several urging them to _Hurry up, hurry up!_ A flash of red caught Buffy's eye, and she saw three of the red-haired family standing at the edge of the platform. The woman was smiling and talking at a window of the train where several heads, three of which were red, were leaning out, and so was the guy named Charlie, but the tallest one, the one with the earring and the long hair, had turned and was looking straight at her.

Buffy jerked her eyes away and nearly collided with Remus where he'd stopped.

"Here we are," he said, and stepped heavily up onto the carriage he was standing next to, the first one in the line.

The corridor of the train was lit by iron lanterns hanging at intervals on the walls. It smelled of wood and damp, of smoke, and a whole other, living smell that Buffy couldn't recognize but thought she could guess at. It crawled over her skin as if she were walking through a slow, lazy spring rain, the wind catching her in the face and cooling her skin, but when she opened her eyes there was no rain and no wind, only the back of Remus's head in front of her and the glow of the lamplight around them.

"This is it," said Remus, stopping at a particular compartment. He knocked, and then slid the door open, motioning for her to go in first.

Buffy stepped across the threshold with the fingers of one hand touching the hilt of her knife.

The light streaming through the window was weak and watery, glimmering through runnels of rainwater. A crack of lightening turned everything in the compartment, including the girl already sitting there, momentarily black and white.

Buffy stopped.

The girl smiled. Her hair was short and improbably pink.

"You must be Buffy Summers," she said cheerfully. Getting to her feet, she stuck out a hand. "I'm Tonks. Pleased to make your acquaintance."

Buffy stared at the proffered hand.

Tonks's smile faltered. The hand pulled slowly back.

"Please sit," said Remus, motioning to the window seat on the right. Buffy edged by Tonks, taking the seat with something like bone-weary relief. Her suitcase she put down at her feet.

Both her hands were free now.

"Heard lots about you from Dumbledore," Tonks was saying, recovering quickly. "Is it really true that you lived on the Boca del Inferno?"

The train was beginning to move. With a shriek of whistles, it lurched into motion, the noise of people shouting last goodbyes trickling through the closed door from outside and down the train. The rain against the windows made it hard to see anything, and Buffy fixed her look on it. The muscles between her neck and shoulders ached, and the flesh beneath her eyes throbbed.

"Yes," she said.

Remus took the seat nearest the door with a quiet sigh. Tonks took the one facing him, and that left Buffy in the window seat on the same side as Remus.

Tonks was eyeing her leather jacket. So was Remus, actually, but neither said anything. Buffy watched the window.

"Looking forward to it, then?" asked Tonks.

Buffy turned her head. "Looking forward to what?"

"Hogwarts, of course," said Tonks, put off. "Dumbledore didn't tell us much, but weren't you—"

Remus cleared his throat.

Tonks shut up.

Buffy turned back to the window.

They sat, Tonks looking at Buffy, Buffy looking out the window, and Remus trying to seem casual and relaxed despite the two of them. Tonks opened her mouth several times, but always stopped just on the verge of speaking. The light now was wan and whitish, Buffy's hand sallow and skeletal in it. The seat rumbled ominously beneath her. From the corridor and through the walls came voices, laughing and talking.

Buffy looked at Remus. "Hey."

Tonks flinched. Remus looked at her mildly. "Yes?"

"Tell him to stop staring at me."

They just sat there, looking at her, Tonks with widening eyes.

In one movement, Buffy pulled the knife from beneath her jacket, leaned through the space between the seats, and jammed the blade three inches deep into the wood of the backrest.

"I said," breathed Buffy, each word knifing through her teeth, eyes fixed on the empty space in front of her, "stop. Staring. At. Me."

Tonks had stilled mid-motion, her hand beneath her robe. Remus was halfway upright.

No one moved.

"Put it away, girl," growled a low, harsh, male voice.

Buffy wrenched the knife free and sat back.

There was a flicker, a kind of folding in the light from the window, and then a heavily scarred chin appeared in midair, followed by a gash of a mouth, and a nose missing most of the tip.

Those bits of him that she could now see, those disfigured pieces of a man's face, hung there before her.

"It's not nice to spy on people," said Buffy. "It gets you stabbed."

The mouth didn't move and no one said anything, but the Eye that had been fixed on her wasn't there.

Buffy slumped back down and closed her eyes. Exhaustion dragged at her with raw fingers.

They were looking at her, she could feel it, but suddenly she didn't care anymore. She squeezed her eyes shut and turned into the corner, pressing her cheek against the window. The hilt of her knife was digging into her side, a heavy, comforting coldness on her hip, and she hadn't been able to relax in so long_—_

_—__can't sleep can't sleep can't sleep—_

Her eyes opened. Tonks was poised as if getting up, eyes wide. Buffy closed her eyes again.

She drifted. Remus was a warm presence next to her, giving off body heat like a furnace. She hadn't been warm since…since before. Since Los Angeles. It made her want to lean the other way, to press her cheek against his arm, wrap him around her like a coat.

Except that beneath the exhaustion, beneath the sleep, he smelled like blood.

The window darkened. The rain got heavier and the cold went deeper and the compartment was damper and damper until it was almost unbearable. Her blood was congealing in the miserable humidity, her skin was grafting onto the seat. Minutes passed in excruciating seconds, or maybe hours. The glass of the window became rimed with white.

The Tonks person was humming under her breath. Remus was dozing, each breath a low, hungry growl…

The Mouth-and-Nose hadn't moved at all.

"Think she's sleeping," Tonks whispered to Remus, who woke with a flinch. "Poor girl, she looks knackered." Pause. "Did Dumbledore tell either of you anything? Because he didn't tell _me_ why—"

"She's not sleeping, Tonks," said Remus quietly.

Tonks shut up.

When Buffy opened her eyes, it was to find Remus looking straight at her.

"Are we there yet?" asked Buffy.

He gave her a half-smile. "Not quite," he said. "Bit of a ways to go."

"Hungry?" Tonks elbowed Mr. Mouth-and-Nose in what Buffy guessed would be his ribs. "Haven't got anything with us, but I'm sure Mad-Eye would be happy to run out and nick something from the cart—"

"You'd bet on that, would you?" a stranger's hoarse voice growled, the voice of a smoker.

Buffy turned and stared out the window. The rain had become a deluge, round drops that made noises like pebbles hitting the glass. The lantern's glow was golden and hot.

"Moody?" she heard Remus say. She heard someone moving, heard the brush of cloth on cloth.

There was something moving at the window.

"Going for a look," the same voice growled. "Got a feeling."

A white face pressed to the fogged glass.

"Well, try not to—"

"Look out," said Buffy, and took a firm grip on her knife.

The window exploded. Glass shattered everywhere, and Tonks gasped and pressed her hand to the long line of blood on her cheek. At the ragged hole that had been the window, a black thing—no, not a black thing, a woman—a pale, gaunt woman with unnaturally long arms and legs and neck, something greenish to her face—

Black, shining eyes, a huge, nightmare mouth of white, broken teeth—

A hand, nothing but skin stretched over bone, the fingers as long and jointed as a spider's legs, swiped viciously at Buffy. She jerked, legs pulling just out of reach as she slid backward on the slick seat and into Remus's lap. The compartment made an awful noise, a groan and shriek of tortured metal, and leaned dangerously to one side, throwing them all onto the floor in a tangle of limbs. Rain poured through the broken window, dripped from filthy hanks of black hair. The lantern's light went out and everything was suddenly pitch black. The broken pieces of the window glowed red and orange from the sparks flying from the wheels of the train scraping against the rail.

_"Moody," _Remus shouted in her ear. A light appeared at Tonks's hand, from her wand.

The _thing_ at the window pulled its lips back into a snarl. It joggled its head back and forth and then lunged, almost completely inside now, emaciated arms flailing for a grip, black hair everywhere. The compartment rocked and groaned again. Buffy, struggling out of the tangle of Remus's arms, saw that face coming at them, mouth stretched wide to sink its teeth into Tonks's leg.

Buffy's foot lashed out. The heel of her boot sank to the sole in the creature's left eye.

A shriek, a howl, a terrible, heart-stopping wail, and the woman-thing tore its face free, falling back toward the window, the gaping wound where its eye should have been dribbling white jelly. Buffy shook off Tonks's arm and was on her feet, a hand on the overhead, a foot in each seat, body hung low, eyes on the thing's face, hyperaware of where its hands were, its teeth. The thing hissed, baring its teeth but not opening its mouth, and there was the moment, there was where Buffy could bring up her knife and—

"_No!"_ A hand, large and large-knuckled, came down on her shoulder, practically picked her up as it yanked her back. "Get _out_—"

Remus grabbed her by the arm, pulled. He had the door open, was shoving her through it. "Go, _go_—"

_Let go of me,_ was what Buffy wanted to yell, to snarl, all her exhaustion swept away by the adrenaline of _battle_, but then the compartment pitched nearly onto its side and both she and Remus toppled out into the corridor, slamming up against the opposite wall hard enough to make Buffy gasp.

Remus had gone limp. The door shuddered in its frame. Everything was suddenly, horribly quiet.

Buffy sat up. Her heartbeat was a cannon firing in her ears. At first, her brain just couldn't process. Everything was so—_no_—normal. The lantern-light was steady; the quiet was punctuated by faint voices behind closed compartment doors. No other noise. Buffy quickly looked up and down the corridor—no one. The door to their part of the train clattered as if a heavy wind was behind it.

Abruptly, it slammed open, spraying water. Buffy was on her feet and between it and Remus before the door's handle could hit the edge of the frame.

Tonks stumbled out, eyes wide. Her cheek was still bleeding, but her wand was firmly in her hand. Otherwise, she looked whole. Her hair clung to her scalp.

"Bloody hell," she said weakly, and then saw Remus. "Bloody _hell_."

"He's fine," said Buffy. "He just hit his head. What happened?"

Before Tonks could answer, Remus groaned and sat up. His eyes were slightly unfocused. "What happened?" he asked, his voice low and guttural.

"Mad-Eye got it," said Tonks. She was fingering the blood on her face. "All right, Remus? Yeah, was a banshee—I think? Would've had it myself, but couldn't see a thing—" She stopped, threw a look at the closed door just next to theirs. "Let's get inside, then, before one of the prefects come nosing. I'd rather not explain this to a Head."

Buffy took Remus's arm, helped him up. When her fingers touched his wrist, brushing the skin as she gripped his arm, she thought she felt him flinch, the muscles of his arm tensing, and she let go.

His skin was very hot.

Inside, the compartment was a complete mess. The floor was flooded and broken glass glittered through the film. Where the window had been there was now a gaping hole of jagged wood and metal, and the walls were scraped and—Buffy noticed—scorched. The lantern had been relit, but the panes were missing. The cushions of the seat had been ripped and blackened with char.

In the middle of it all stood a man in a brown coat. He turned to glare at them as they came in, and Buffy didn't even pretend not to stare.

"Think I killed it," the man growled. "Not sure—have to look for the, hm, _body_, later."

"That's Mad-Eye," Tonks explained to Buffy. "He was supposed to be lookout—until you caught him at it, anyway."

"I'd like to hear how, too," growled Mad-Eye. Maybe all he did was growl. "Not so many who can see through an Invisibility Cloak."

Buffy didn't answer that, just moved to stand next to him, looking out through the gaping hole at the rain blowing by. "How did that thing get here?"

She didn't have to see it happen to know that the three were exchanging looks. "We're not sure," Remus said finally. Neither Tonks nor Moody said anything. They obviously didn't want to talk about it with Buffy still standing there.

Not that it mattered—she had just noticed something more important. "Where's my suitcase?"

"Wherever the banshee is," said Mad-Eye shortly. His Eye was staring directly up into his brain.

Buffy closed her eyes. "All my stuff is in there." _Everything._

"Don't worry," said Tonks. "I'm sure we can, erm, find it—"

From ahead, of them, through the lashing rain, the air whistle shrilled, long and almost unbearably loudly. With a squeal and grating of wheels, the train began to slow.

"Hogwarts," said Remus, peering out into the dark. "We're here."

Buffy closed her eyes. Her hands clenched into fists.

"Come on," said Remus. He nodded to Tonks. "Take care of this, please? I have to get Mad-Eye and Miss Summers up to Hogwarts."

"We'll wait," growled Mad-Eye. The train was slowing down. "I want the other students off before we go."

"_Reparo,"_ Tonks was saying.

Buffy watched. The water stains were removing themselves from the wall, the pieces of glass on the floor picking themselves up, the water receding like a tide going out. She watched as the cushions straightened and unscorched, as the wall began rebuilding as if a crew of carpenters were laboring away.

Her hair was probably a mess. There probably wasn't time for a shower, either.

Buffy sat down.

No one spoke for the next ten minutes or so, during which the train slowly emptied of students. Mad-Eye stood at the door, glancing out, and Remus had a quiet argument with Tonks over whether or not he should let her look at the bump on his head.

Everything smelled of damp and mold. Tonks was trying not to stare at the white jell that still smeared Buffy's boot heel. Mad-Eye couldn't seem to look anywhere else.

"Let's go," growled Mad-Eye. He put on a hat he'd pulled from his pocket, as brown and worn as his coat. Remus followed Buffy out, and Tonks smiled at Buffy as they left. Buffy didn't look back.

The storm had gotten worse, as they discovered getting off of the train, the downpour like a million needles in the skin, drenching everything within seconds. The platform on which they emerged was already empty. Mad-Eye squinted into the darkness, stumping right up to the edge, his clawed metal foot ringing against the concrete. Remus sneezed, head and hair twitching in a way that reminded Buffy nonsensically of a puppy. Buffy, somewhat refreshed by the bracing wind, was the first to see what was waiting for them.

"What are those?" she asked, her voice low.

Remus looked at her. "You can see them?"

Buffy didn't answer. Mad-Eye's Eye was spinning madly.

"Those are thestrals," said Remus. Then, with only the slightest hesitation, "Only people who have seen death can see them."

Buffy felt a shiver die somewhere on her spine, and irony was cold in her throat. Buffy smiled, had it occur to her only a beat too late that smiling was probably not appropriate, and for the life of her couldn't manage anything but, "Oh."

Dead white eyes were fixed on her. Wings of articulated bone and stretched membrane twitched up and down in the wind. Their coats were glossy black, matted with the wet, and there was something vaguely horse-like about all of them, with long noses and horse-like shapes. One opened and closed its mouth, though it made no noise, and it had sharp, carnivorous teeth.

There were two of them, these thestrals, hitched to the black carriage standing at the edge of the platform. The wings were still but for how the wind moved them, and both were staring directly at Buffy. No movement, no sound, no anything, but there they were, immobile, attention fixed very much on her. She could see drops of rain trickling over the whites of the eyes, the faint, rising mist of the rain striking their flesh.

"Stop it," she said without thinking.

Both bony, black heads swiveled away.

Buffy took a deep, jarring breath. Remus was motionless.

Mad-Eye snorted.

"Come on," said Remus, and held the door for Buffy. She got in, followed by Remus and Mad-Eye right behind him. The door creaked shut. A lurch, a shudder of the axles, and they were on their way.

Despite there being no driver, the carriage moved surely and quickly, bumping and swaying, springs squeaking along. Everything smelled sickly sweet, like rot and lichen, and it came to her, with a feeling of something like a rock in her stomach, that the reason everything felt and smelled so comfortably familiar was because she was reminded of what a grave smelled like.

"Nervous?" asked Remus.

_No._ "No," said Buffy, and stared out the window. She felt him looking at her, felt his eyes on her face, but he didn't try again.

They were going over a hill. Outside the window, a high stone wall had appeared, and they were following its curving line. The rain was getting worse. Lightening split the sky often enough to leave afterimages in even Buffy's vision, and thunder crashed again and again behind thick, black clouds.

At some point they made a sharp right turn that nearly upset the whole rig. Then the sound of the rain on the carriage roof stopped altogether, and the wheels were rolling over not grass but some kind of pavement, the rattle echoing hollowly in all directions. The stone wall was still there, except now it was fixed in places with flickering lanterns, drifting past in floating wisps of pale light.

Mad-Eye was staring out the other window. Remus's eyes were closed. Buffy felt the shape of her knife pressing into her skin, felt the cold weight of it.

Finally, just when Buffy was trying to decide whether she was going to be able to get up again, the carriage heaved to a stop.

No one moved. Mad-Eye's Eye was rolling every which way. Remus looked carefully out the window.

"McGonagall," he said, and some of the tension eased out of the air.

Mad-Eye thumped the door open, getting out first and with his wand in his hand. The rain had not slackened, and Buffy could see how his brown coat was soaked through before he'd taken two steps.

Remus swung out into the rain without hesitation, but then turned back to the door. With a movement that was only awkward by how careful he was in it, he stretched out his arm, making it and his cloak into a sort of makeshift covering, and offered his free hand.

Buffy stared at him. He met her eyes with a stare of his own, and she got the distinct feeling that he was testing her in some way. At the same time, there was something so shy and unfamiliar about his expression that her anger cooled before it could reach the surface.

"Miss Summers," he said quietly.

They hurried up a small flight of slick stone steps to a pair of huge wooden doors, where Mad-Eye strode up to slam his fist into the right one, a single, booming knock. It opened without further prompting, offering a wedge of light, and the disfigured old man disappeared inside without another glance back.

"Here we are," said Remus. "Hogwarts." He moved toward the door.

Buffy didn't. His arm pressed against her shoulders, the hand on her shoulder tightening reflexively as he realized she wasn't moving with him.

He looked at her. "Miss Summers?"

His voice was soft now, and concerned. His smell was the smell of tea and damp wool, a wet, grown man who hadn't slept and wore exhaustion like a coat, and, beneath that, something else, a strange, familiar smell that made the hair on the back of her neck stand up.

The gap between the doors was brightly lit. Buffy stared at it, at the yellow light burning through the rain, and behind her she heard the carriage groan as it drove off into the howling darkness, leaving them standing there in the storm.

"I," she whispered, "I…I don't…"

His hand gripped her shoulder. She felt him pause, felt him brace himself as if against something about to hit him.

"I don't know what you're afraid of," said Remus, "but I promise I will not let anything hurt you."

Buffy…stopped. She looked up at Remus, wondering if he'd really just said what he'd said. Remus himself looked somewhat shocked, and very embarrassed. He took his arm from Buffy's shoulders, leaving her cold, and she surprised herself by missing it.

"Er," said Remus. "I mean, ah…which I would do. For, um. Anyone."

He stopped. They stood there, mutually embarrassed, drenched from head to foot, the thrum of the rain on the stone and the wood the only sound.

"OK," said Buffy.

He looked at her. She looked at him.

Resignation filled her head.

"OK," she said again, and stepped forward through the doors.


	2. Chapter Two

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Harry Potter belong to their respective creators, Joss Whedon and J.K. Rowling.

Author's Warning: major AU.

* * *

The skin of her face felt cold and unnaturally stiff. Someone was holding her up. Her fingers were gripped tightly into something, some handful of damp cloth, and it came to her that she was clinging to Remus's sleeve.

Remus was talking, talking urgently, angrily, with someone over her head.

"Minerva, she is in _no_ condition—"

"We have no choice, Remus," interrupted a woman's voice, older, sterner. "The Ministry is baying at our door. We must induct her as an official student of Hogwarts _now_. Shacklebolt can hold them off no longer."

Buffy wasn't really sure what happened next. One moment she was standing on the wet threshold, rain blowing wetly into her hair, and then she was in front of a set of double doors, smaller, light streaking through the edges in bars of brilliant white. Remus's arm was all that held her up.

"—sick," Remus was saying. "The Headmaster will understand—"

"I'm fine," said Buffy, weakly, not really meaning it, her heart sinking, the sense of hysteria that had been festering in her stomach since the minute she'd disembarked the plane now beginning to boil over into her throat and lungs.

And through the doors, through the doors she heard them. A thousand different voices whispered through her head. The presence of every living, breathing creature beyond the double doors—there were so many—pressed in on her with a weight that left her drowning, left her clutching at Remus simply to stay conscious, and with them, many times fewer, the presence of, of other things—slippery, fickle impressions, something half-there, half-not. And—as weird as it sounded in her head—they smelled…strange. There was the human smell, but something else, something bright and natural and wild, something that was so familiar and yet so different at the same time. It was…?

Buffy closed her eyes.

A knife through the heart that drew no blood. The first look of a loved one lost for so long she'd forgotten what they looked like.

Through the skin, through the flesh, into her bones—

—and, suddenly, there was nothing.

She flinched from the abrupt absence of pain. Her eyes opened, closed.

"I'm fine," she said again, and this time it was true. Pushing his arm away, she straightened up, shaking her head to try and clear it. Remus was still and silent beside her.

Through the doors, she could hear someone talking. It was a voice she knew, a voice she had heard the first time nearly two weeks before. It was the voice she had followed all the way to London.

It was him.

"…and due to these circumstances," he was saying, "we are now, for the first time in Hogwarts history, accepting into our ranks a student who until now has been raised a Muggle, with no prior knowledge of…"

"You're hurt," whispered Remus. "There's a wound in your stomach."

Buffy looked at him. He was watching her somewhat accusingly.

"It's nothing," she said.

His mouth set into a thin line, but he didn't push. Instead, he said, "When the doors open, go up to the front where Professor McGonagall will be standing. She will put the Sorting Hat on your head. When the Hat calls a name, that's the House you'll be in."

_Sorting Hat?_ she thought. _House?_ But she didn't say anything.

"I'll see you after," said Remus, and walked away.

Buffy didn't watch him go. Instead, she turned back to the doors, trying to breathe.

"…now, without further making the lady wait, please join me in receiving here Ms. Buffy Summers, late of Los Angeles, California."

The doors swung open. Light filled the hallway.

Buffy stepped forward. Her eyesight, sharper than any vampire's, adjusted instantly.

The room was enormous, a cavern of stone and light. The walls sloped away into the dark of the ceiling, where there wasn't a ceiling, but an ugly night of a howling storm, a gale of rain and wind and lightening that hung over their heads as if they were watching it through a glass. Beneath it, a thousand candles floated in the damp air, the wicks hissing with moisture, filling the hall with a flickering, golden glow.

Along the floor were four long tables, large tables of stiff, dark wood, golden candlesticks and empty plates and utensils arranged as if prepared for a dinner, and along these tables sat hundreds of black-robed figures, children and older children, all staring and craning their heads, wreathed in candlelight. Interspersed with them were white figures, luminous and transparent—ghosts?—and her empty hand clenched nervously as if on the hilt of the knife that was still tucked into the small of her back.

Swallowing bile, stifling an urge to faint, Buffy moved resolutely, desperately forward, down the space between the two tables in the center. Each step clacked loudly against the stone, and she ignored all the heads that turned with her as she walked. Her hair was cold and wet on her neck and face, her clothes still dripped, and her face—

Their faces dimmed in her vision.

At the opposite end of the hall, there was one table perpendicular to the other four, on a raised ledge of stone. This one was full of adults, men and women in robes and pointed hats and gauging eyes, all watching her, taking the measure of her, but Buffy saw the Headmaster and then she saw no one else.

He was tall and bony, a head of white hair that fledged like feathers down his back to the waist. A long, crooked nose supported half-circle glasses, and his eyes were a blue that she hadn't thought a human being's eyes could be, vivid and flawless. His robes were a deep, deep green, emblazoned with stars and moons. He was looking straight at her, and when he smiled, his expression, the very air around him, seemed to say everything was going to be all right.

The magic lay like honey on her tongue.

Her eyes slid away from the crooked-nosed man. In front of the faculty table, on the open floor between the teachers and the students, was standing a tall, black-robed woman, watching Buffy through square-rimmed glasses. Next to her was a small, three-legged stool, and on it—

—a hat—

—an old, dirty, patched, pointy hat—

"Summers, Buffy," the woman said, her voice filling the corners of the hall, and nodded at the stool.

Buffy looked at the stool. When she didn't do anything else, a murmur swept through the tables.

The woman's lips whitened. Buffy just stood there.

"Stand, if you please," said the woman. Picking up the hat, she turned to Buffy, reached out with both, careful hands, and placed the ragged witch's hat on her head.

Buffy closed her eyes.

There was the noise of hundreds of people breathing. Next to her, the woman was taking regular, irritated breaths. Overhead, the rain was heavy and lashing against the ceiling and the windows, thrashing at the stone and glass. A girl at one of the farther tables was whispering something about bleaches. A boy on the opposite side of the room was muttering something about her _arse_. Beneath the floor, there was the quick tapping of many, many small feet, and everywhere the crackle of fire. The whisper of candlelight, the hiss of torches. A groundswell of small noises threatened to pull her under.

Buffy—

_—__i'm not going to make it i'm not going to make it oh my god please let me make it i don't believe in prophecies i won't i won't i won't—_

—_"Welcome home, Mistress,"_ a small voice whispered in her ear—

"GRYFFINDOR!"

The commotion this raised was deafening. Applause and whistles and cheering drowned out anything else. Buffy heard almost nothing of it, snatching the hat off of her head with hands that shook violently and passing it to the woman, who was staring. Buffy knew she had gone pale, but only nodded once, to show that she understood and hadn't gone catatonic. After a moment, the woman nodded back, and then motioned for her to go and sit at the table that was making so much noise.

Buffy hesitated at the edge of the platform, and then made cautious way to the table. The silence came back as she walked, the cheers swallowed by a hush, and then everyone was staring at her again. She only chose an empty seat, nearly midway down the table, and took it without looking at anyone, though everybody around her couldn't seem to look anywhere else.

"Well!" At the staff table, the white-bearded old man made a grand flourish with his hand, breaking the awkward stillness. "Tuck in!"

Buffy nearly gasped at the unexpected, discordant frisson of her skin—and then the empty plates and goblets, gleaming golden in the light, were full of food and drink, a wave of smells and heat that struck her in the face. Everyone immediately began loading their plates, and laughter and talk surrounded her space of quiet.

Nauseated, she used her fingertips to push her own shining plate farther away from her.

The boy sitting next to her bit back a smile.

Her stomach rebelled.

"Must have been a shock," said someone behind her.

"A terrible shock," someone else agreed in a very similar voice.

Buffy turned.

Two boys, both red-haired, long-nosed, freckled, and grinning irresistibly, were standing behind her. She recognized them as the twins from the train. The one on the left immediately bowed, took her left hand, and gave it a loud kiss. "I'm Gred and this here is Forge."

"Only joking, I'm Fred and he's George," said the other, and commandeered her hand so that his lips could have their turn.

"Delighted to have you here," said the one on the left.

"Absolutely cracking," added the right.

"Fred Weasley, the cute one."

"George Weasley, the cuter one. Haven't we met? King's Cross, elevenish, the attempted murder of our decrepit older brother?"

Buffy winced. Down the length of the table, a tall, gangly redhead was craning his neck to stare. A brown-haired girl and a boy with glasses sat with him, pretending not to be watching. The girl kept whispering to the redhead to "Stop that, she'll see you!"

The boy on her right sat himself down on her left. The boy on her left took the empty seat to her right, first shoving an inconvenient younger occupant right out of it. Their mouths had just opened when a third voice interrupted with "Our newcomer!"

A bone-numbing coldness washed over her skin. The taste of false death filled her mouth.

"Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington, at your service," said the translucent shape. "Resident ghost of Gryffindor Tower. A pleasure indeed, to welcome such a lovely young woman to our ranks," he added, bowing.

The body reacted even as the brain was still trying to recover. She barely managed to stop herself before she pulled the knife from under her shirt, her arm awkwardly trapped between the table and her hip.

The ghost looked at her, concern noticeably concerned. "Are you quite well, my dear?"

Now Fred and George were looking at her, too, worry replacing high spirits. Fred began to speak, began to ask "You all right?" but that was when Buffy saw who was approaching from behind the first ghost.

A gaunt, white figure was coming toward her—a long, haggard face, a shock of dark, unruly hair, and wide, feverish eyes fixed on hers. She smelled, as he came nearer, that particular fume of the open grave, the same smell that seemed to hang over most of the burial places that she had to wait on, the odor of undeath, guilt, and blood.

He halted in front of her, ignoring the first ghost, who had floated nervously out of the way. The twins had gone silent, as had the rest of the table, and their silence spread and caught until it seemed the whole hall was still and staring, until even the teachers were craning their heads. The ghost ignored everything, his eyes only for her.

Buffy only realized she was standing when she was already on her feet. Her hand had come off of the hilt of her knife, and she ignored George's urgent whisper. Her eyes were all for the ghost.

He gazed at her. Slowly, excruciatingly, his face seemed to somehow soften. Someone behind Buffy gasped.

Then—

"My lady," said the ghost, his voice a hoarse, grating whisper, painful to hear.

Her body moved itself. Buffy didn't consciously do what she did next, the knowledge born from someplace deep and dark that she hadn't thought of or remembered since that October night what seemed like an eternity ago. The knowledge was what moved her, what recognized in the ghost something familiar enough to wake it, and the scent of roses filled her head.

At exactly the same moment, almost moving as one, they bowed to each other, the ghost in a courtly, polished bow, Buffy in a graceful curtsy, their every movement and angle precise and perfect.

When they straightened, when Buffy came back to herself and found her body holding a strange pose, when that knowledge retreated from her mind and she looked up with her own eyes, the ghost's lips curved into a haggard, bleak smile, and she tasted, through the magic, through the unnatural life, his terrible joy.

"You've come, Mistress," he rasped, and then he moved off, leaving the way he had come, not once looking back.

Her skin felt colder than the stone beneath her feet. Buffy turned, eyes lowered, ignoring all the hundreds of eyes that had fixed on her, ignoring all the gaping mouths, the pointing fingers. She collapsed back down onto the bench with an exhaustion that was almost overwhelming, and then she stared down into the table and refused to look at anyone.

Slowly, as if they were all reluctant to break the silence, the noise level of the hall began to rise. The twins beside her were wide-eyed, watching her as if they were gripped, and the girl across from her, a tall black girl, was open-mouthed, lips slightly parted.

"What," said the first ghost, his voice shaken, his hand patting uneasily at the ruff he wore around his vaporous neck, "what, what…"

The memory was gone, and Buffy tasted blood in her mouth.


	3. Chapter Three

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Harry Potter belong to their respective creators, Joss Whedon and J.K. Rowling.

Author's Warning: major AU.

* * *

"The Bloody Baron," said George, his voice strained. "What—why—"

"Oh, oh my," said the other ghost, the first ghost—Nick, or something. "What a strange…the Baron himself…oh…"

Fred was staring at her as at something he had never seen before, his expression somewhat more suspicious than his brother's. The girl on the other side of the table, the one who had been open-mouthed, was watching her, brows furrowed.

Exhaustion pulled at Buffy's eyelids. The taste in her mouth was of blood and death. Sickened, she turned her head, trying to tune out the noise around her, trying to find her center, that numb, cold place she had been in before the ghost had raised the memory that was not hers. A coil of pain and weakness was slithering through her stomach and up her throat and threatening to wriggle into her skull.

There was a sudden, unexpected silence. Buffy realized that the people around her had been talking all the while and she had been ignoring them. Still, she couldn't quite lift her head, all her attention going into not throwing up or falling down, and when a hand touched her shoulder, she barely stopped herself from dragging out her knife.

"Take a minute," said a voice. George. There was something in his voice that made her hesitate, made her come back a little from the precipice. "It's got to be hard," he added. "Being Muggle and everything, I mean."

Buffy closed her eyes.

They left her alone, then, though they didn't go away. They sat, talking to each other about nothing in particular, paying careful attention the whole time they were pretending not to. The girl went along with them, contributing to a conversation meant to deliberately and kindly exclude her, and Buffy was caught off guard by the depth of her relief, her gratitude, so much that she forgot some of her agony.

There was so much…noise. Everyone was so, so happy, so talkative, so full of…joy. As if everything was all right, as if nothing was wrong, as if they had every reason to be laughing and joking and having a good time, back at school, back with their friends, in a castle full of magic and ghosts. As if everything was perfect.

Maybe it was.

Maybe in their world, in _this_ world—everything was all right.

Buffy closed her eyes and tried the phrase in her mind, whispering it silently to herself.

_Everything is all right. Everything is going to be all right._

She stopped. Her eyes opened.

No.

Nothing was all right. There was no point in lying to herself.

Nothing was ever going to be all right again.

It was not too long a while before the crooked-nosed man stood up at the staff table. Everyone immediately paid attention, and Buffy turned with them, looking for the man, waiting, heart suddenly pounding, for him to dismiss them, for him to turn his eyes to—

"So!" said the crooked-nosed man. "Now that we are all fed and watered, I must once more ask for your attention while I give out a few notices."

Buffy could have bitten through her tongue with frustration. Disinterested, she turned away, letting his voice filter through her ears.

"…the list of objects forbidden inside the castle this year has been extended to include…"

"Oy, where's Hagrid?" someone was whispering near Buffy. "Haven't seen him yet—do you know what happened at the boats? I heard there was—"

The feeling of being watched made her look up, glance over her shoulder to a table where all the ties were yellow and black. A boy there was looking at her, a tall, dark-haired boy with gray eyes. Buffy turned again as if she had not seen.

"…I must inform you that this year, the sixth-floor corridor on the left-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death."

The crooked-nosed man smiled, as if he had told a joke. No one laughed.

"It is also my painful duty," he continued, "to inform you that…"

Buffy was staring into the tablecloth when the same, shocked groan was made by hundreds of different throats at once. Next to her, Fred and George were gasping as if they'd been stabbed. People began whispering frantically.

"This," the crooked-nosed man was saying; his voice, calm and unflagging, restored a measure of calm, "is due to an event that will be starting in October, and continuing through the school year, taking up much of the teachers' time and energy—but I am sure you will all enjoy it immensely. I have great pleasure in announcing that this year at Hogwarts—"

That was when, with a shattering crack of thunder that rattled the tableware and made the candles flicker erratically, the double doors that she had entered the hall through crashed open.

A figure stood in the doorway. It was a man by the shape and air, wearing a long, black cloak and leaning on a wooden staff. Buffy recognized him instantly. As they watched, he lowered his hood, shook out a long man of grizzled, dark gray hair.

It was Mad-Eye.

Gasps filled the hall as the other students began to see him. With a dull _clunk_ his every other step, Mad-Eye made his way up to the crooked-nosed man and Buffy heard them shake hands, muttering to each other. A scrape of chair legs marked Mad-Eye sitting down.

"May I introduce our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher?" said the crooked-nosed man cheerfully. "Professor Moody."

He was the only one who clapped into the dismal silence. Everyone was staring at Mad-Eye, who seemed unruffled by all the scrutiny.

The crooked-nosed man smiled unflappably, and continued. "As I was saying, we are to have the honor of hosting a very exciting event over the coming months, an event that has not been held for over a century. It is my very great pleasure to inform you that the Triwizard Tournament will be taking place at Hogwarts this year."

"You're _joking_," cried Fred, the abrupt burst of his voice making Buffy flinch. Noise whispered through the hall as people smothered laughter or talked excitedly.

"I am _not_ joking, Mr. Weasley," the old man said, "though now that you mention it, I did hear an excellent one over the summer about a troll, a hag, and a leprechaun who all go into a bar…"

The stern woman in the black robes cleared her throat.

"Er—but maybe this is not the time," amended the crooked-nosed man, with a conspiratorial wink at George. "Where was I? Ah, yes, the Triwizard Tournament…well, some of you will not know what this tournament involves so I hope those who _do_ know will forgive me for giving a short explanation, and allow their attention to wander freely…"

Buffy looked down into the tablecloth. Her skin was crawling, the same feeling she had gotten when Mad-Eye's Eye had been fixed on her on the train.

A man sitting at the staff table was looking at her. Cold, dark eyes were creeping over her face, and she was reminded inexplicably and forcefully of the white-haired man from the station, the one that only she seemed to have been able to see, except this person looked nothing like the white-haired man, his hair shorter and black, his nose hooked rather than Roman, his skin waxen rather than pale.

His expression was…strange.

The crooked-nosed man was still talking. Beside him, Mad-Eye's head turned slightly. Buffy realized he was looking at the black-haired man.

From down the table, her ears caught a whisper of, "Oh, that's vile! D'you see how Malfoy's staring at her?"

Everyone seemed to be looking at her. Everyone was talking about her. She heard her name being whispered and murmured and said in every corner of the hall.

She closed her eyes.

"I'm going for it," Fred hissed suddenly, breaking through her preoccupation, and she glanced at him to see, for just a second, a certain look in his eyes, a set to his jaw, that reminded her of someone else.

Buffy turned away. Beside her, she felt the movement of George's head, felt how he looked at her.

"Only students of age," the crooked-nosed man was saying, "that is to say, seventeen years or older—"

A flood of protesting voices drowned him out. Buffy winced at the pain in her head. When had she last slept? How many days had it been? How many weeks?

"That's bloody unfair!" Angelina was hissing to her neighbor, but then she interrupted herself to look at Buffy and ask worriedly, "You all right?"

"…personally be ensuring that no under-age student hoodwinks our impartial judge into making them Hogwarts champions. I therefore beg you not to waste your time submitting yourself if you are under seventeen.

"The delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving in October and remaining with us for the greater part of the year. I know that you will extend every courtesy to our foreign guests while they are with us, and will give your whole-hearted support to the Hogwarts champion when he or she is selected. And now, it is late, and I know how important it is to you all to be alert and rested as you enter your lessons tomorrow morning. Bedtime! Chop chop!"

Noise exploded from every corner as students stood up and headed for the doors, chattering breathlessly. Next to Buffy, Fred was scowling at the head table.

"They're not stopping me entering," he said, determined, and then seemed to notice her again. His eyes widened. "Oy, you all right?"

"I'm fine." Buffy got to her feet, both hands flat on the table. "I'm—I'm fine." Angelina was lingering nearby with a group of people in red and gold ties. Farther on, the three from before, the redhead, the brown-haired girl, and the boy with the glasses, were practically moving in slow motion as they tried to eavesdrop.

Neither Fred nor George looked convinced. "Come on," urged Fred, "we'll go see Madam Pomfrey. Can't hurt—probably—"

"—and if you happen to need to fall into someone's arms," added George, waggling his eyebrows—

"—Charlie's not here right now, but I reckon a Weasley's a Weasley—"

"That will be quite enough," said the black-robed woman from earlier, coming up behind George. "Off with you two. Miss Summers, you're with me."

"Professor McGonagall! _Smashing_ to see you, we were talking to our new American here—"

"—leave her to us, Professor, we're happy to take care of her here on, can't do enough for a fellow Gryffindor—"

"I think not, Mr. Weasley," Professor McGonagall said firmly. "Miss Summers will have quite enough trouble adjusting without your additional efforts. Now go about your business, gentleman. I believe Filch will be seeing a sufficient amount of the both of you without my contribution tonight." She looked at Buffy, concern replacing exasperation. "Miss Summers, are you ill?"

"That's _exactly_ what we were speaking to her about, Professor!"

"Someone should take her to see Madam Pomfrey this instant, don't you think, Professor? Allow me to be the first to volunteer for Queen and England—"

"_Mr. Weasley!"_

They beat a hasty retreat, giving her quick, flashing smiles as they escaped. They hadn't gotten ten steps away when they were crowded by various people they knew, all trying to talk quietly, Angelina and the gangly redhead with them.

Buffy was left standing there with the professor, who was watching her critically. What a mess she probably looked. And she didn't have anything to change into, either, after losing her suitcase on the train. Along with…everything else she'd had left.

Except her knife.

"Come," said Professor…McGee? "The Headmaster is waiting."

The professor turned, then, not waiting for Buffy to say anything, and walked off.

Buffy followed.

They went down the hall, in the opposite direction of the doors the students were leaving through. Behind the staff table, which was already clear and unoccupied, off to one side, was a smaller, more discreet door, and this was where the professor led them. She opened it without hesitation, and passed through, pausing to make sure Buffy was with her.

"I must tell you," said the professor, as they walked quickly through a short, stone hallway, lit by small lanterns, lined with paintings that had been covered with thick cloths, "that a Ministry official is already here waiting for you. He insists on interviewing you immediately. I find this highly inappropriate, but the Headmaster believed that you would not mind."

Ministry? Buffy vaguely remembered having been told something about it. "No," she said. "No, I don't mind."

At the end of the stone hallway, there was another door, smaller and iron-bound, and this one led through a dusty tapestry into a larger, much brighter hallway, lined with stands of full suits of armor, complete with swords and shields. From there, they continued through several more corridors and up a wide flight of stairs, until, in one particular passageway, Professor Mickey went to a place in the middle where a large, ugly gargoyle stood against a wall. There, she stopped, and turned to scrutinize Buffy again. Buffy ignored her, and stood still, trying not to look as if she was going to collapse.

"I am," Professor Mickey said suddenly, still studying Buffy's face, "the Head of Gryffindor House. Now that the Sorting Hat has placed you in Gryffindor, I will be your Head of House for the duration of your stay here."

Buffy said nothing.

Her silence seemed not to bother the professor. The woman was looking at her, not angrily or curiously, but only thoughtfully, as if she was trying to decide if she was seeing what she had expected to see or not. Finally, after an uncomfortable moment had gone by, Professor Mickey turned to the gargoyle, saying, in a low voice, "Baldurdash."

There was a grind of stone. The gargoyle turned its head, and, with a scrape of rock against rock, hopped to one side.

The taste of dust filled Buffy's mouth.

The wall had moved. In the opening, a spiral stone stair, narrow and dark, led upward.

"The Headmaster, Miss Summers," said Professor Mickey.

Buffy tried not to think about anything at all. Fixing her thoughts on the cool, metal touch of her cross, chilled with the rain despite lying against her skin, she went forward and stepped onto the stair.


	4. Chapter Four

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Harry Potter belong to their respective creators, Joss Whedon and J.K. Rowling.

Author's Warning: major AU.

* * *

The stairwell was dark and quiet. The walls blocked out all noise, all sound, and the air was filled with dust.

The steps were stone. Buffy felt the coldness of them through the flats of her boots, felt the chill in her bones. Each time she put her foot down, frissons of cold pricked her skin, pulsed through her veins. Out of the corners of her eyes, she caught, from the stone, a vague impression of movement and light, though when she looked, all she saw was still, ordinary stone.

Professor Mickey seemed unfamiliar with the stairs. She kept catching the points of her shoes on the edges of them, and muttering under her breath when a bit of dust smeared an edge of the black robes she wore. Buffy thought it was strange that the professor was so unused to the steps, considering she probably had to go and see the Headmaster all the time. It made her think that maybe there was usually another way.

Her face felt hot, her skin stretched. Everything felt sort of distant and bleary. The fever was boiling deep beneath her skin, and she wasn't sure how much longer she could withstand it.

The ache in her side grew worse.

The spiral stairs came to an end at a large wooden door, on which hung a brass knocker shaped like a griffin. A line of weak light spilled out across the landing before the door, and shapes moved inside.

From nearly fifteen steps down, Buffy heard voices.

"_...certainly understand the Minister's concern in this matter,"_ someone was saying. Buffy knew that voice—the crooked-nosed man. "_However, Miss Summers has been through more in the past few days than any young woman should have to bear, and to remove her so precipitously—"_

"_But, sir,"_ someone interrupted, "_that is precisely why we must take her into custody immediately. We know of the attack at the, er—the airship? Airship station?—in New York. The Minister—"_

"_Airport,"_ another voice, a stranger's voice, slow and deep, corrected.

Buffy and Professor Mickey had come to the landing. The professor hesitated, glancing at Buffy, and raised her hand to the knocker, but didn't knock.

"_Yes, yes,"_ said the first voice impatiently. "_Airport. I was saying, the Minister is extremely anxious that she should be taken to a safe place, under the protection of Aurors. The safe house is already prepared, and the moment we reopen Narrow House, we—"_

"_Narrow House?"_ The crooked-nosed man's voice was quietly questioning. "_I had been under the impression that the Ministry had not yet managed to find a way to break the wards set around it."_

"_Well, no,"_ said the first voice. "_But we are confident that once we have the true heir to open the way—"_

Professor Mickey's lips pressed together to form one, thin line. Taking the knocker, she thumped it against the metal plate beneath, and the voices on the other side broke off.

Noiselessly, with a whisper of air, the door opened.

Professor Mickey went in. Buffy followed.

On the threshold, she hesitated.

The room was large and circular. Bright, hot light spilled out of a fireplace, and lamps of glowing yellow hung from the ceiling. Silver gleamed from the tops of small, rickety tables, and in several places on the walls were the sweeping shapes of drapes, from behind which she could hear the howl of the wind and the rattle of rain against glass.

In the center of the room, at an enormous desk, sat the crooked-nosed man, his hair spun silver in the light.

He was not alone. Behind him, on either sides of his chair, stood two people—Remus, on his left, and the black-haired man from earlier, the one who had been watching her, on his right. Back against the wall, behind the chair entirely, stood Mad-Eye, his Eye whirling in its socket.

On the other side of the desk, facing the Headmaster, were three people. They all wore black cloaks, and the way they stood next to each other, both sides supporting the center, indicated that they were there together.

The man in the middle was tall and square-faced, pale, with short, wiry hair. He had been the one speaking, and his eyes, when he set them on her, were guarded and careful. On the left was a younger, taller man, with dark eyes and dark hair, his long hair pulled back. When he saw her, his expression went from bored to keenly awake, and he watched her with unconcealed curiosity.

On the right, taking up practically half the space in the room, was a bald black man who was at least half a head taller than the second, larger and broader of shoulder. He stood quietly, and the only reaction he gave to their entrance was the way his glance seemed to rest, briefly but with a certain weight, on her.

They were all looking, it seemed, at her.

The crooked-nosed man smiled gently. From beside him, the look of Remus's eyes were almost a physical touch.

"Miss Buffy Summers, Headmaster," said Professor Mickey, and stepped to one side, indicating with a nod that Buffy should come in.

She stepped off of the threshold, letting the door close behind her. From somewhere in the room, she seemed to hear the soft tussle of feathers.

"Miss Summers," said the Headmaster, "please forgive me for calling you at such a late hour. I'm afraid there was a matter that could not wait."

He stood, the chair creaking beneath him, and indicated the square-faced man with a hand. "May I introduce Mr. Dawlish, an Auror from the Ministry of Magic?"

"A few questions, Miss Summers," said Dawlish, abruptly, without waiting for an answer. "Concerning why you repeatedly failed to report to the—"

"I'm sure Mr. Dawlish understands," said the Headmaster, ignoring Dawlish, "that you have been to great lengths in order to come here, and that you must be very tired from traveling such a long distance in such short time, and with such little notice."

Dawlish looked disgruntled. From behind the Headmaster, Mad-Eye grunted.

"A few questions, then?" Dawlish asked finally, grudgingly.

The skin on the back of her neck _crawled_—and Buffy turned with a jerk to see a large, cushioned chair where there hadn't been one only a second before.

She tried to slow her breathing. Her eyes were wide and she realized everyone was staring at her, Dawlish in particular.

Slowly, Buffy lowered herself into the chair. The Headmaster sat as well.

For a moment, no one said anything. Then Dawlish made under his breath a noise of distaste.

"Very well," he said. His glance, as it took in the Headmaster, Professor Mickey, the black-haired man, and Mad-Eye, seemed to communicate censure. Remus he ignored entirely. "Williamson?"

The long-haired man beside him, who had been watching all the while, now took out a rolled sheet of yellow paper. He placed it flat on the large desk, and set on top of it a white feather quill.

"Interview conducted by Auror Dawlish, of the Ministry of Magic, Auror Department," said Dawlish, and the quill, without anyone touching it, gyred up into the air and began to write swiftly over the paper. "Witnessed by Auror Williamson and Auror Shacklebolt."

He turned, then, and looked right at her, and his face could have been made out of skepticism.

"Please state your full name," he said.

"Buffy Anne Summers," said Buffy.

There was another pause. From behind her, she distinctly heard Professor Mickey mutter, "_Not_ a nickname…"

"Your age?" asked Dawlish, terse.

Something like the memory of pain edged into her voice. "Fourteen."

There was an even longer interval. Dawlish was staring at her disbelievingly, as was the man named Williamson. The only one who did not look at all doubtful was the crooked-nosed man.

Buffy waited.

"You understand that it is a crime to lie during questioning by an Auror," said Dawlish, "subject to fines and possibly imprisonment?"

"Yes," said Buffy.

"Do you know where you are?"

"Yes."

"That is?"

"Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

"Do you know why you are here?"

"Yes."

"Being?"

"To be a student here."

"Have you been coerced in any way?"

"No."

"Have you been forced?"

"No."

"Have you been threatened in any manner?"

"I must object to this line of questioning," interrupted Professor Mickey. Her voice trembled with offense. "What, exactly, are you getting at?"

"All routine, I assure you," Dawlish said, without a change in tone. "No interruptions, please. The answer, Miss Summers?"

"Yes."

Both Remus and the black-haired man looked at her sharply. Mad-Eye straightened where he stood, the Eye suddenly fixed on her. Professor Mickey gasped under her breath, more a violent inhalation, and even the Headmaster turned to look at her.

Dawlish did nothing overt, but his eyes narrowed. Williamson stiffened, his air expectant, and Shacklebolt did not react at all.

"By whom?" asked Dawlish, and his eyes seemed to glance at the crooked-nosed man.

"By the men wearing skulls," said Buffy. "The white-faced ones."

If she had taken out her knife and stabbed them, she could not have gotten a much different response.. She watched the two Aurors pale, watched the blood drain from their faces, saw how Shacklebolt's composure shivered with the effort. She saw how Mad-Eye leaned forward, like a dog putting his nose to the wind, how the black-haired man became very, very still. She heard how Professor Mickey became very, very quiet.

She felt how Remus moved, awkwardly, as if he had been about to put out a hand.

"Death Eaters," whispered Williamson, and shut up at the glare Dawlish threw him.

"These men," said Dawlish, leaning forward, his face intent, "what did they look like?"

"Black robes," she said, frowning, "and…skulls. Or masks, shaped like white skulls. I couldn't see their faces. They wore hoods."

The Aurors looked at each other. The younger one's eyebrows were raised, and Shacklebolt crooked one of his. Dawlish was openly scoffing.

"We have documented," said Dawlish, "the attacks perpetrated on you in two places outside of wizarding jurisdiction: your father's home, and the—airport—" he glared at Shacklebolt out of the corner of his eye "—in New York." He focused on Buffy. "These are the places in which you saw these 'white-faced men?'"

Buffy had spent most of the train ride and the dinner thinking in the back of her mind about what she was going to say. Now, without hesitation, she told him, "There were five attacks."

The quill stopped. Dawlish stared at her. Williamson and Shacklebolt exchanged looks. Buffy didn't need to look to know that everyone else was staring as well.

The silence stretched.

"Five?" said Dawlish faintly.

"Five," said Buffy. "First, at my father's house. Two attackers, both in black robes and white skull masks. I checked their arms afterward and they both had black skull tattoos. Second, on the subway, on my way to the airport. Three, this time, all like the first two, robes, masks, tattoos. Third, at LaGuardia, in the restrooms, two of them, one male one female. They got away. Fourth, at Heathrow, two of them, both masked, both male. They had a snake with them. Fifth, at King's Cross, just before I boarded the train. I think he was using magic to keep anyone else from seeing him. I didn't want to start a fight, so I ran away, and that's when Remus found me."

Buffy stopped. She was actually breathless. There was a woozy, light feeling in her head.

Dawlish was still staring.

"You could check the morgues in West L.A.," said Buffy. When had her voice gotten so weak? "I think they probably came back for the bodies, but you never know."

She closed her eyes, trying to breathe.

"That is impossible," said Dawlish's voice. It was low and flat, almost a hiss of anger. "This child is lying. Not even an Auror could have survived so many concentrated attacks in fewer than three days. Miss Summers, do you know the penalty for lying to a Ministry official during questioning?"

"Miss Summers," said Shacklebolt, his low, slow voice sounding troubled, "if you are exaggerating in any way…"

Buffy opened her eyes. Remus's eyes were the yellow of wolves at night.

"It bit me," she said. "The snake, I mean. I cut its eyes out, but it still bit me."

The world was a shimmering wash of light and color. Buffy was somewhat conscious of standing, of unzipping the front of her leather jacket, the jacket she had not taken off once since Heathrow. She was watching Dawlish's face as she slipped it off, letting it drop into the chair behind her, and she saw how he whitened, how his pupils dilated with the shock. She heard, from behind her, the Headmaster standing up out of his chair again.

The makeshift bandaging she'd cut out of her favorite sweater had soaked through. When she peeled it off, it took some of her skin. It reeked of blood and some other, more bitter, acrid smell. A clear, yellow fluid was leaking along with her blood, and the flesh exposed by the rip in her shirt was swollen and ghastly white.

In the flesh of her waist, in that soft place just below her breast and just above her stomach, were two small, round punctures, deep and bloody, the width of her little finger.

They were staring, transfixed, but Buffy wasn't seeing them anymore. The fever that had been roiling beneath her desperation was surging up like a tidal wave, was blackening the edges of her vision. She was shaking so badly that she could not tell when she lost her balance, and only knew she had fallen when someone cried "_Miss Summers!"_ and hands tried to catch at her as she collapsed.

"_Madam Pomfrey,"_ she heard a voice, an unfamiliar, iron-toned voice, say. "_Minerva, get Poppy. Severus, the venom—"_

"_We must get her to St. Mungo's at once!"_ someone else, Dawlish, was shouting. "_We must move her immedia—"_

"_Shut up,"_ snarled Mad-Eye's voice.

She couldn't see. Fear made her whisper, "Remus, Remus!"

There was some more shouting, someone pushing someone else, and then a familiar smell, a familiar heartbeat, knelt down beside her. "_Miss Summers."_

"You promised," whispered Buffy. She was so cold. His hand, on hers, was burning hot. "You promised."

Then even Remus's voice slipped away, and she was closing her eyes.


	5. Chapter Five

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Harry Potter belong to their respective creators, Joss Whedon and J.K. Rowling.

Author's Warning: major AU.

* * *

"Ouch! My foot!"

"—is the largest magical mass in the known wizarding world? Yes."

"You stepped on it!"

"Oh, sorry. Forgot what a whinger you are."

"George, you sure she's here?"

"It cuts me to the bone to hear you disbelieve me, Ronald, it really does. Harry, still got the map?"

"It says she's here. B. Summers. Hospital wing."

There was movement beside the bed, a scrape as of chair legs. Buffy opened her eyes, turned her head.

Remus was straightening up where he sat next to the bed, below a closed and shuttered window. In the dark, his hair was disheveled, his eyes two points of yellow light. He looked bone-weary, and drained, as if he had not been sleeping.

The bed was small and narrow. On every side, they were surrounded by curtains, thick, cloth curtains hanging by rings from a bar set into the ceiling. There was a strong smell of herbs and bandaging, and from beyond the cloth walls, at the edges above and below, Buffy could see a wavering, weak light, as of a candle or a lamp.

She felt so...weak. Opening her eyes had exhausted her. Each breath came in a shallow gulp, and her throat burned with thirst. Her hair stuck to her scalp and skin, and there was a dull, aching pain in the place just behind her brow.

Remus was standing up.

He hesitated at the curtain, glancing back at her. Buffy turned her head to the wall, an exercise in biting back a gasp of pain, and closed her eyes nearly shut, watching from beneath her eyelashes.

"Here we are—"

The curtains lopped gently in the center of the section that faced the foot of the bed, revealing part of a face and red hair. Then, Remus reached out, took a handful of the curtain, and pulled it aside with a clatter of wooden rings knocking against each other.

In the gap were two faces she recognized—Fred and George, with George leaning slightly forward to peer through the curtains that had just been there. Behind him were three others, two boys and a girl. Buffy tried to remember where she'd seen them, and then recalled—at the dinner, the three who had sat several people down from her, the redhead, the girl with brown hair, and the boy with black hair and glasses.

On seeing Remus, their expressions of alarm turned to outright shock.

"Professor Lupin?" one of the twins, maybe George, said unbelievingly.

"Professor Lupin?" said the two other boys, the third redhead and the one wearing glasses.

They stared at him, apparently overwhelmed into speechlessness. The girl's mouth was hanging slightly open. Calmly, as if they had only said hello, Remus told them, "Miss Summers is resting. It's very kind of you all to come down here to see her, but if I may suggest you put off your visit for another time?"

His voice was quiet, but firm. The boys and the girl looked at each other, dumbstruck by this unexpected turn of events.

"It's only we were worried, Professor," said George finally. "Haven't seen her for two days, have we? And she was looking, er, a bit peaky, at the feast."

_Two days,_ thought Buffy. _Gone. Wasted._

"We thought she might like some company," said the brown-haired girl, then, in a rush. "We thought it might be hard, you know, to be sick and alone in a strange place. We, ah, we brought some—we were going to sneak her some butterbeer. Um, everyone at the Tower says hello. What are you _doing_ here? I mean—"

Buffy knew without looking that Remus was smiling. "That is very kind of you," he said again, his tone softer, "but I'm afraid Miss Summers isn't quite prepared for company right now. I'll give her your message, shall I?"

They all exchanged looks again, and then the girl's eyes went over Remus's shoulder. She gasped, a little, and the others' heads swerved at the noise.

"Oh," said the girl, appalled. "Professor, what happened to her?"

Fred and George were staring. The other two boys were craning their heads over the twins' shoulders.

"She was very ill," said Remus gently, "but is almost fully recovered now, I'm happy to say." He didn't quite step into their line of sight, but he did shift his weight so that he ended up not too obviously blocking most of their view. "Now, before Madam Pomfrey should come along and put us all into detention…?"

A few _Sorry, Professor_s, several glances in the direction of the bed, and they reluctantly left, though not before the girl, red-faced, pressed a thick, corked bottle and a few small packages into Remus's hands. He walked them to the door, and Buffy saw, while the gap in the curtains was empty, that they were in a long, high-ceilinged room, in one of the beds that apparently lined both sides, the curtains pulled back on most of the others. From one end, she heard the smolder of a fire dying down into ash, smelled the cinder, the source of the irregular light.

At the door, there was a hurried, whispered, "Professor, what are you...?"

"Not now, Harry," said Remus's voice. "I'll find you later, all right?"

The door closed.

Remus stepped back into the enclosed space, pulling the curtains closed behind them. It was suddenly that much darker, and Buffy rolled onto her side, the blankets tucked under her chin.

"What day is it?" she asked, and it was a stranger's voice that came out of her throat—a little girl's voice, hoarse, weak, and full of pain.

Remus smiled, a real smile. His face was made bright and young with relief. "The third of September," he said, "perhaps nine o'clock." He took his seat again, beside the bed, his knees brushing the edges of the mattress. The clothes he wore were the same she remembered him in, and he smelled of sweat and worry.

Beneath the blanket, Buffy pressed a hand to her side. Beneath the thick bandaging, her body was numb, her fingers touching deadened flesh. "What happened?"

She watched him remember. His lips pressed together, the expression becoming bleak.

"Severus identified the bite as a giant cobra's," said Remus, somewhat distractedly. "He has some…experience, in these things." To that, there was an undertone of black humor. "He administered the antivenin, but everyone thought it was too late. Poppy did what she could for you, in here, but until…until last night, we were…well, we were certain that…"

_You were dead, _he didn't say, but Buffy heard it. She only nodded, showing him that she had heard what he didn't want to tell her, and turned her face to the ceiling.

There was silence. For a moment, Buffy thought he was simply going to let it go, but then his breath caught as he inhaled.

"Why didn't you tell anyone?" He was trying not to sound accusing, but not very well, and she knew it. Buffy almost smiled. She had some experience in these things.

When she didn't reply, he continued, "You could have died. You _should_ have died. It's only luck you're alive right now! Why—" He stopped himself, breathed deeply, steadying his voice. "Why would you do something so utterly foolish?"

He was actually distraught. Buffy almost opened her mouth to answer.

"That whole time," he said, mostly to himself, "on the train, the whole way here. You must have been—in unthinkable pain. The entire way…and we never noticed. Since _London_…"

Something like discomfort made her whisper, "Not your fault. I should have said something."

"Why didn't you?" Remus dragged the fingers of his right hand through his hair, looking far older than he should have. "Why didn't you?"

It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him why, but something stopped her. Something made her, instead, ask, "What's wrong with you?"

His mouth opened. Closed. "What?"

"You." Buffy tried to clear her throat, but it was too dry. "What's wrong with you? You don't know me. Why do you care so much?"

His expression was…stricken. The remorse that filled it was completely out of proportion to the question she'd asked. Buffy stared, taken aback by how unexpectedly he'd reacted to a question that hadn't really meant anything except to make him back off.

"I," he said, "I don't…I don't know what you're…"

Remus's face was white. He looked away, at the floor, so that she couldn't see his eyes.

At the edge of hearing, Buffy's ears caught the sound of footsteps. She turned her head at the whoosh of air that told her a door had opened, and she didn't miss the way Remus turned his head at the same time. Someone—several someones—had come into the room.

"Remus?" asked a voice. It seemed, after their whispering, particularly loud and echoing.

When Remus stood up, his expression was again dispassionate. "Headmaster," he said levelly, and went to pull back the curtain, letting the light from the fire spill in.

The Headmaster wore robes of deep blue, and a matching, pointed hat. He came, smiling slightly, to stand at the foot of the bed, examining her through his spectacles. The point of his white beard brushed the top of the blankets.

With him were Professor Mickey, who was looking strained to the point of breaking, and the black-haired, hook-nosed man, who was glaring at everyone. Neither looked as if they'd had much sleep.

"Miss Summers," said the Headmaster, "I am extremely pleased to see you awake."

"Miss Summers," said Professor Mickey, voice shaky with feeling. "Thank heavens."

The black-haired man said nothing, but his lips curled in what was nearly a sneer.

"How are you feeling?" persisted Professor Mickey.

"Alive," rasped Buffy. The woman winced.

"I don't know," said the Headmaster, ignoring the black-haired man's pointed cough, "if Remus has told you anything of what happened?"

Buffy thought. "A little."

"The Aurors were extremely disturbed at your condition," the crooked-nosed man continued, "and were so concerned that they insisted on having you removed to St. Mungo's—a wizarding hospital—in London. I believe they would have picked you up and carried you out that very minute, if not for Remus here."

The look the Headmaster gave Remus then was—unfathomable. Remus looked down, his face flushed, his eyes flashing yellow. Both the black-haired man and Professor Mickey looked from the Headmaster to Remus and back again, obviously confused, though the black-haired man's eyes were narrowing.

"Fortunately, Alastor was able to talk some sense into his former colleagues," the Headmaster continued. His eyes shone, as if, under any other circumstances, he would have laughed. Professor Mickey even smiled slightly, though it was tense. "He, ah, persuaded them that St. Mungo's was too far away, and we were able to get you to the hospital wing in time to extract some of the venom, enough, at least, to identify the variety of snake that had bitten you."

"Giant," whispered Buffy, without thinking. "And also cranky." She added, after a pause, "Ugly, too."

Four pairs of eyebrows went up. The Headmaster smiled, Professor Mickey smiled, and Remus positively grinned. The black-haired man alone rolled his eyes and made an expression of long-suffering impatience.

Buffy tried to smile, but her mouth just wouldn't form the right shape. She waited for the feeling to touch her, for the smile to come, and all she felt was a coldness, a numbness, that seemed to creep somewhere deep beneath her skin and spread until there was nothing, not even the pretense, and her whole body was empty. Not even a memory remained. She felt the moment passing, felt the weight press down again, and she turned her head to the wall so that they wouldn't see how the light bled from her face, how the smile drowned without ever reaching the surface, because she had seen it once in a mirror and had thought to herself, _This is what a corpse looks like._

But it wasn't as if they could do anything but notice, and for a few long moments no one said anything, they watching her and she watching the wall.

"Of course, we could not completely shake them off," said the Headmaster, as if nothing had happened. "They've left poor Mr. Williamson, I'm afraid to monitor your condition. He's been sitting in here with Remus all day, you know. Poppy only threw him out an hour or two ago. I only just convinced him to go down and take a bit of dinner, and that we would notify him immediately should there be any change." He looked around suddenly, as if he'd just remembered something important. "Oh my. I _did_ rather think I'd forgotten something."

There was an irritable sigh that Buffy didn't recognize. "Headmaster," said a new voice—the black-haired man?

"Hm? Oh, yes."

When Buffy looked again, the Headmaster's indefatigable smile had finally gone. He was facing her, his eyes a darker blue than before.

"The Ministry is pressing for custody of you, Miss Summers," he said, voice low. "I'm afraid Dawlish's report was anything but well-disposed to us. We will have to fight them in court if we do not want to see you taken from Hogwarts."

There.

Buffy sat up. Her side was numb, but every other part of her body screamed in pain. She ignored it, for beneath the pain, beneath the exhaustion and the heat and the fading traces of poison, was the clear, cold edge of a blade clearing the sheathe.

"They can try," she said, and her voice was her voice, though it scraped her throat raw and bloody to do it.

Professor Mickey's eyes widened. The black-haired man's sneer diminished, disappeared. His eyes, as black as his hair, were fixed on his face, and there was something like recognition growing in them, an understanding that made his pale face whiten further still.

The Headmaster only watched her.

And Remus...

Remus...

Remus looked at her, and his eyes phosphoresced yellow.

"Well," said the Headmaster. "I had intended to delay the meeting until perhaps tomorrow night—"

"No," said Buffy. "Now. I want to do it now."

She pulled back the blanket, swung her legs over the edge—and yanked the blankets back around herself, pulling her legs back as if burned.

"Uh," said Buffy. Her eyes were wide. "I mean, after. After I get dressed."

The Headmaster's eyebrows had gone up again. Professor Mickey made a noise that was somewhere between a cough and a snort. The black-haired man exhaled explosively, muttering something like _"Of all the..."_ and, turning on his heel, stalked away, through the curtains.

Remus was blushing.


	6. Chapter Six

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Harry Potter belong to their respective creators, Joss Whedon and J.K. Rowling.

Author's Warning: major AU.

* * *

She couldn't stand up.

Buffy gritted her teeth, set both hands on the bed, and _pushed_—only to collapse back, gasping, at the pain in her neck and head.

Her legs lay against the side of the bed, loose, slack, as if they were unconnected to her knees. At the touch, they were firm, warm, yet her flesh, when she tried to move, tried to flex her muscles, was wooden and lifeless.

"_The bite was shallow, only a quarter of an inch,"_ the Headmaster had told her. "_Severus assures me that the venom injected was negligible, else it would have been quite fatal. You came very close, Miss Summers."_

Except Buffy remembered. She remembered the body of the snake, thicker than her arm, whipping forward, the hooded head striking low, its two, knife-gashed eyes streaking blood and black, smeared bits, the mouth opening wide. She remembered what it felt like as the fangs, two inches long, sank to the roots in her flesh, the burning agony of the venom as it met her blood.

The punctures were only small, red marks now. Her side was still mostly numb but beginning to ache, whatever painkiller they had given her wearing off. The fever had died, the dizziness lessened, and Buffy was feeling the first pangs of hunger, which was always a sign of recovery for her.

Only her legs would not move.

Of her clothes, the only things they had been able to salvage had been her leather jacket and her boots. They lay, cleaned, in the chair beside the bed that Remus had occupied. The pants, shirt, underwear, and bra had all been too torn, too bloodied, or too soaked in venom to do anything with but burn.

Buffy wondered what they'd done with her knife.

Professor Mickey had also brought her a towel, a toothbrush, and a comb, and shown her the door in one side of the room, between two empty beds. She had then left, telling her she would be back in perhaps an hour.

Now Buffy couldn't stand up.

_No._ She set her jaw, dug her fingernails into the flesh of her palms. She would do this. She had to do this.

When she levered herself up onto her feet, holding on to the side table but putting all of her weight on her legs, Buffy nearly blacked out from the intensity of the pain. The knuckles of her fingers whitened from the stain and she tasted blood where she'd bitten her lip, but then one foot edged forward, the other followed, and she was limping down the length of her bed, staggering, her hands clutching at the blankets, and by the time she reached the foot, sweating and gasping with effort, the feeling was coming back into her legs like molten metal being poured into her bones.

Her underwear, the towel, and the toothbrush were in her arm. At the door, Buffy stopped to catch her breath, and leaned against the wall, feeling the torture of her leg subsiding into something was almost bearable.

The bathroom was wide and spacious, walled and floored in clean white stone, but very bare. Several candles, set into different niches in the wall, gave off a gentle, pearly glow. There was no shower, only a large bath sunk into the floor, with three taps at one end. It was already filled with steaming water.

The white shift they had put her in two days ago smelled of sweat, poison, and a body that had been sick for a long time. Buffy stripped it off without hesitation, and then wasn't sure whether or not to be embarrassed that there was nothing under it. The bandaging came off without trouble, and then she stood in front of a mirror set above the sink, staring at the place where the giant cobra had bitten her.

The flesh was stark white, lifeless. Beneath her fingers, it felt stiff and hard, like plastic, and the punctures glared uncannily red. They had been daubed, she saw, with some kind of sweet-smelling ointment.

_Vampire bite,_ she thought.

Her hand went up to her throat. Buffy turned her head, her eyes going from her stomach to the arch of her exposed neck.

Nothing.

Her skin, pale, sweat-stained, stretched smooth and unbroken, unblemished, from ear to shoulder.

Buffy looked up.

Pale. Empty. The face she looked into, the face that was her own, could have been a doll's.

The water was blistering hot, the soap from the middle tap an essence of tea rose. When she pulled herself, dripping and scrubbed red, out of the tub, all the feeling in her legs had come back, and she felt, as she walked to where she'd dropped the towel, almost human again.

Her teeth brushed, skin chafed dry, hair pulled back, Buffy stood at the door, wrapped in the towel, and hesitated. From the other side, from inside the room, she heard someone moving, heard the rustle of cloth. Quickly, she glanced around the bathroom, looking for something, anything, but unless she broke the wooden handle of the toothbrush in half and used the jagged end to stab, there wasn't really anything useful. She decided that, in a tight spot, she could always use her towel to strangle anything with a neck.

Opening the door, she walked out.

Someone had stoked up the fire. The room was filled with bright, yellow light, and a smell of burning wood.

Remus was standing beside her bed, laying a handful of black cloth out on the blankets. He turned at the sound of the door opening, mouth beginning to form the shape of her name, and then he was still, his lips parted slightly, his eyes fixed on her.

Buffy stood very, very still.

He had such a strange look on his face.

His eyes, she saw, were actually blue.

Abruptly, Remus turned, facing away. His hand, at his side, was clenched.

"Professor McGonagall," he said, and his voice was completely, totally normal. "She had this pressed for you. I'm afraid we couldn't find any quite your size, but…"

The black cloth, Buffy noticed, was actually a robe, with a collar and sleeves. It looked…really big.

"Thanks," she said.

She thought he might leave, then, walk out the door to let her dress, but he didn't. Instead, he stood there, back turned, hesitating, as if he had something left to say.

"I have your knife," he said. Not looking back. "I…couldn't really carry it around with me, so I've…left it in my own rooms. When you've been given yours, I'll get it to you."

Why did he sound so…distressed? It was just a knife. Buffy didn't understand what was going on, or what he was trying to say. So she said nothing.

"I'll let you finish dressing, then," he finished, and, still without having even glanced at her again, went out.

The robe was maybe three sizes too big for her, but clean and warm. The collar came up too high and the sleeves hung down too low, and the hem was barely high enough to keep from dragging on the floor, but that was only if she was careful. The shoulders were too wide. It did, however, cover every inch of her but her face.

There was nothing to be done for underwear. Either they had all forgotten, or it just hadn't occurred to anyone. It was a little unsettling, not to mention distracting, to put the robe on without anything beneath it, but at least the cloth was thick and she was clean. Combing out her hair, Buffy thought of her suitcase, lying in the dirt somewhere in a field, or crushed, maybe, onto the tracks.

She felt so naked. She didn't even have any lotion or lip balm to put on, or deodorant, for that matter. They had that here, right? Christ, what if they didn't?

God, her suitcase. If only she'd grabbed her suitcase.

Buffy was slipping on her boots when the door opened and Professor Mickey stepped in.

"Miss Summers," said Professor Mickey with stiff politeness. "Good, you're dressed." She surveyed Buffy with a critical eye. "A little old-fashioned, that thing, but still in very decent condition. I'm glad I remembered where it was—I hadn't thought of it for years, not since it was discovered in the washroom and I put it away the first time."

Buffy couldn't think what else to say but "Thank you."

"Of course, Miss Summers," said Professor Mickey. She paused. "Mr. Williamson has been sent off to bed," she continued, more quietly. "Most of those to be involved have been gathered. They are waiting on us, Miss Summers. If you are ready?"

Buffy nodded.

The professor led her out of the hospital wing, stopping to close and lock the door behind them. Even as the key turned, Buffy heard, from inside, the whisper and scurry of small feet against the floor, quick and near-noiseless, and the muted pitch of soft, high voices.

Remus stood waiting outside. He had regained his composure, though he still looked very strained, and offered Buffy a cautious smile, which she did not return.

"The students are in their Common Rooms," Professor Mickey whispered now. "Come."

The halls were dark, and quiet, lit at intervals only by small, glass lamps, filled with pale, flickering light and long, sighing echoes. The faint light gleamed off of pieces of the suits of polished armor that lined the walls, or the gilded edges of the frames of paintings. The walls were occasionally broken by a closed door or a hanging rug. The floors were mostly stone, the air damp and chilled.

Buffy's head filled with whispers. She didn't look, she only stared straight ahead, but she still saw, out of the corners of her eyes, how some of the figures in the paintings seemed to move, how their eyes seemed to follow her, and she heard the distant noise of voices, whispering, whispering, from one painted mouth to another. Where they should have been alone, the halls were filled with moving figures, turning with them as they passed, a hundred painted heads following them as they walked.

Professor Mickey didn't speak, and neither did Remus, though he glanced at her now and then. Buffy shut her mouth and didn't mention it, even when, as they went by an archway that led into a different hall, she saw, in the corner of her eye, in the darkness, a white, ghostly figure, hovering close to one wall, a gaunt, wracked face, its gibbous eyes on her.

They went along several different hallways until finally they came to one, large staircase, which Professor Mickey took. It led to another floor, where several other stairwells branched away into the dark, and the professor took the middle. She and Remus seemed to know exactly where they were going. Buffy supposed that was to be expected, if they were both professors here.

The second stairwell, which was narrow and dark, the steps short and strait, seemed to go higher and higher without break or end, and there were windows set into the curving stone. Buffy looked out of one as they ascended past it, but the sky was black with clouds, and a slow rain was falling. She caught a glimpse of the gleaming surface of a large body of water, stippled with falling rain, the sweep of treetops, and then she turned back again, ignoring the windows from then on.

At one point her foot went right through the step she could see. Her body compensated automatically, her muscles contracting as she began pulling her foot back, as her balance reasserted itself, but then a hand took her elbow, steadying her, and it was so unexpected that she stumbled anyway.

"Careful," whispered Remus. "Some of the steps aren't always there."

Through the cloth, she could feel the heat of his hand, his grip. She felt how his fingers tightened without his meaning them to, felt the way his breath caught, and when she looked at him, his eyes gleamed yellow.

"Thanks," she whispered awkwardly, and straightened, her hair brushing his arm.

At the top of the stairs, there was a door. Professor Mickey stopped there, knocked, the thud of her knuckles on the wood muted strangely, and then leaned close, murmuring under her breath.

The door swung open, soundless.

"We are here," said the professor, and went through.

Buffy stood there, looking up at the opening. There was, from within the room, a faint, flickering light. She could hear nothing, however, not even Professor Mickey's breathing or heartbeat, and the magic was crawling over her skin. Behind her, Remus moved, his body stiffening, and she knew he was stopping himself from putting out his arm, from touching her, protecting her.

"There is nothing to be afraid of," he whispered instead, and she heard the truth in it.

Nodding to show that she had heard, knowing that she had come too far to turn back anyway, Buffy tensed her shoulders, lifted her chin, and passed through the door.


	7. Chapter Seven

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Harry Potter belong to their respective creators, Joss Whedon and J.K. Rowling.

Author's Warning: major AU.

* * *

They were at the top of a tower.

The chamber was large and circular, with sweeping walls of stone. A wooden floor matched a low, wooden ceiling, and closed and shuttered windows lined the wall.

At the center stood a table, bordered by ten high-backed chairs. On the table were a circle of long, wax candles, held upright by silver candlesticks,

The door that Professor Mickey, Remus, and Buffy came through was one of two. The other was on the opposite side of the table, edged by soft, yellow light.

"Sit, Miss Summers," said Professor Mickey, and walked toward the other door.

Remus glanced at her. "Do you—"

Buffy didn't look at him. Instead, she went to one of the chairs, the one nearest the door they'd entered the chamber by, pulled it out, and took it. The chill of the table and the chair pressed against her skin through the robe.

Remus hesitated. She could hear him turn his head, to her, toward the door, and then, with something like a withheld sigh, follow the professor.

She heard the door close behind them, the murmur of voices in the next room.

Buffy closed her eyes.

"—was a shock," someone was saying. Mad-Eye. "How she reacted, when that banshee came through the window. Took the three of us by surprise and the Muggle was the first one to recognize the threat, to take steps. Stabbed its eye out with her _boot_. I've seen veteran Hit Wizards move slower."

"She is carrying a wand?" another voice said. The black-haired man from the hall, from the infirmary.

"Big knife," grumbled Mad-Eye.

"Cut its hand clear off," put in another, younger, female voice. Tonks.

"Has she spoken to you?" asked—the Headmaster. "Has she told you anything?"

"Nothing," complained Tonks. "Didn't say two words the whole way here—except when she told off Mad-Eye to put his eye back in his head."

A disgusted harrumph. "Spotted me through the Cloak like I wasn't even wearing it."

A woman's voice, then, older, maybe middle-aged. "That poor girl. After all that—"

"Do not underestimate her," warned another voice, one that Buffy couldn't place for a moment before she remembered—the black man from the meeting, the one who'd come with— "Whatever she looks like, we know she is not helpless. She has seen through most of the concealments she's come into the vicinity of, fought off Death Eaters, and survived the bite of a giant cobra. She is nothing ordinary."

"Of course she isn't," said the woman's voice, cutting off an older male's _Now, dear._ "That girl has been running for her life for a week now. If she's a bit...jumpy, well, it's absolutely—"

"Miss Summers defeated two Death Eaters by herself," said the black man. "That we have been able to _confirm_. The count could be higher if what she said about the three other attacks is substantiated."

They were quiet, then, and Buffy seemed to see in her mind a group of people looking at each other, the tension in their faces.

"I think," said the Headmaster, then, his tone calm and almost easy, "that we have neglected Miss Summers for too long."

The door opened.

Buffy heard it when Professor Mickey hesitated on the threshold. She heard it when each person coming in after the professor seemed to pause, to hesitate, and then continue in. She heard the exceptions—the regular, unfaltering thumps of Mad-Eye's metal leg, a confident, unfamiliar stride that was accompanied by an astringent sort of smell, and the whisper of the folds of a robe as the Headmaster strode in, closing the door again behind him.

Buffy opened her eyes.

They were all looking at her.

"Miss Summers," said the Headmaster. He wore dark, blue robes, and his long white hair and beard were almost glinting in the candlelight. "I believe now would be the time for introductions."

They each stood by a chair, the people she had heard talking, and the Headmaster introduced them one by one. "Professor McGonagall, you have already met. Here is Professor Snape, who identified the giant cobra that did you so much harm."

The black-haired, black-eyed man, who only took his seat, looking at her without expression.

"Professor Moody, you know—" Mad-Eye sat beside Snape, and they exchanged menacing glares. "And Tonks, the third person who went to meet you."

"Just Tonks," said Tonks, still smiling. "Please."

"I believe Remus needs no introduction," continued the Headmaster, and Remus shifted in the seat he'd taken beside Buffy. "Kingsley Shacklebolt beside him is an Auror at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and an invaluable help to us. You may trust him absolutely."

Buffy saw how they looked at each other, how Shacklebolt glanced at the Headmaster, his eyebrow raised.

"Finally," said the Headmaster, as if he hadn't noticed anything, "these two people here are Arthur and Molly Weasley."

Arthur Weasley was tall and lanky, with red hair that was beginning to thin and recede. Molly was shorter and plumper, her red hair pulled back from her face except for the few tendrils that had escaped. They both wore long, green robes that were comfortably tatty-looking, and were smiling in a nervous, kindly way.

"Ladies and gentlemen," said the Headmaster, "this is Buffy Anne Summers."

Buffy lowered her eyes to the table. A quiet "Hello, Buffy," from Arthur Weasley and a "Hello, dear," from Molly Weasley was all that broke the stillness.

"We," said the Headmaster, more quietly now, "are the people who will help you adjust to your life as a witch."

She—couldn't help herself.

"I'm not," she began, but the rest of what she wanted to say she managed to bite down on, to stop before it could be said. Buffy looked down again, at the table, and knew her face had paled from how cold it felt.

There was a brief, awkward quiet.

"Now that the Ministry knows of your existence and your arrival at Hogwarts," said the Headmaster, as if nothing had happened, "it will shortly be impossible to keep your identity concealed. With your permission, I would like to make everyone here aware of it. Kingsley, of course, already knows, but I believe everyone else here would appreciate some clarity."

The Weasleys were looking perplexed, glancing at her out of the corners of their eyes. The professors eyed her, Mad-Eye and Tonks were quiet, and Remus—

Buffy said nothing.

"Very well." The Headmaster looked around at them. "I tell you this in complete confidence, and with the utmost faith in your discretion."

They were all so quiet. Buffy clenched her hands into fists beneath the table, not looking at anyone.

"Miss Summers's name," said the Headmaster, "is not the one she was given at her birth. She was born Elizabeth, the daughter of Percival and Lucretia Errol."

He said it calmly, casually. Without emphasis. And those names meant nothing to Buffy, the names he had given her the first time they'd met—

Mrs. Weasley gasped, her hands covering her face. Mr. Weasley's mouth hung open. Professor Mickey was looking back and forth between Buffy and the Headmaster, eyes wide, Professor Snape was staring at Buffy. Tonks and Mad-Eye had turned, she gaping and he staring.

From beside her, Buffy could hear the erratic beat of Remus's heart.

"I believe everyone now understands," said the Headmaster, "why it was of such importance that Miss Summers be brought to Hogwarts immediately."

"But they died," said Mrs. Weasley shakily. "The Ministry announced—I mean, the newspapers, they all said...Percival and Elizabeth, they—"

"Percival did not die at Narrow House," said the Headmaster. "He was severely wounded, almost to the point of death, but he managed to live long enough to escape the assault of Narrow House and take his infant daughter to safety."

"But Lucretia," objected Professor Mickey, "Lucretia would have—"

"Lucretia was unaware that her daughter had survived the attack," said the Headmaster, putting one hand on the table, "and, in any case, did not want to be told otherwise. Remember, Minerva, that the only reason she was not targeted was that she so promptly cut ties with the Errol line. She married Ignatus not a year after Percival was killed, and did not speak of her first marriage again before her death."

"Wait, wait," cried Tonks. "What are you saying, Headmaster? That—that Elizabeth didn't die with Percival, that—that _Buffy_ is Elizabeth, so then...then..."

Buffy kept her eyes on the table.

"Yes," said the Headmaster. "Buffy is Elizabeth Errol, the only living descendant of Honorius Errol, the heir of Narrow House and the last of her line."

The silence that came over them was immediate and complete, almost breathless. Buffy could feel them looking at her, could feel Tonks's wide-eyed look and Mrs. Weasley's gasping, Professor Mickey's disbelief and Professor Snape's scrutiny.

Could feel Remus looking at anything but her.

"Wait," said Tonks again. She looked confused. "She was—if she wasn't dead, she was, what, in America? What was she doing there? I mean, how—"

The Headmaster—did nothing. He did not move, he did not look at her. His expression didn't change and he said nothing. But Tonks _still_ abruptly stopped talking, still glanced around at Mad-Eye and Shack, who did not look at her.

Tonks sat back in her chair as if nothing had happened and she hadn't said anything at all.

For a few, tense moments, no one moved or spoke.

"Then, the Ministry," said Professor Mickey at length, in all but a whisper. "Why they were so insistent..."

"Yes," said Shack. "The Ministry has been attempting to reopen Narrow House for years, since the Yeomen closed the doors to all those not of Errol blood. I believe Minster Fudge is pushing to have wardship of Elizabeth Errol granted to his assistant, Senior Undersecretary Delores Umbridge."

"That woman!" cried Mr. Weasley, but then caught himself, looking embarrassed. "I mean, er..." Then his expression changed again. "Albus, we cannot let that happen."

"I wouldn't give wardship of a _hag_ to that hag," added Tonks, and didn't look at all repentant at the reproachful glance Professor Mickey gave her.

"But Elizabeth Errol herself," said Mad-Eye. He was still watching Buffy, his Eye fixed on her. "The Ministry won't stop at much to get at her."

"Precisely," said the Headmaster. "That is why we must act immediately and petition the Wizengamot to grant custody to someone who would have Miss Summers's well-being foremost in mind." He turned to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. "Molly—"

"Of _course_ we'll do it," interrupted Mrs. Weasley. "Won't we, Arthur?"

"We'd have to insist," said Mr. Weasley, the smile in his voice.

"I had hoped you would," said the Headmaster, and turned back to the table. "Miss Summers, these are my suggestions to you. First, that you petition the Wizengamot for your wardship to be granted to Arthur and Molly Weasley, until you should come of age at seventeen. Second, that you attend Hogwarts during the school year, with a tutor to help you catch up to your fellow fourth years, while you wait for the legal proceedings over your inheritance to be concluded. Third—"

Buffy lifted her head, and looked straight at the Headmaster.

She heard the others when they gasped, or inhaled, or exhaled, sat back in their chair, widened their eyes. She heard them, but she didn't care, because she was looking at the Headmaster, was meeting his eyes, his blue, blue eyes.

"You said you would tell me," she said.

Everyone was very still. Remus's hand moved, slightly, as if he would have reached out to touch her.

"Miss Summers," said the Headmaster.

"You said," interrupted Buffy, and the anger was cold and sharp and consuming. "You said you would tell me who killed them."

She'd waited and waited, taking everything at his word. Now she wasn't going to wait any more.

Anger and anger and anger, all she could feel, the only thing in her heart. Buffy wanted—_needed_—it, needed the anger, because without it she was nothing, she was numb and lifeless and a corpse that didn't know it was dead. The anger had kept her going, had kept her breathing, had kept her from just lying down and giving up, and now she let it fill her eyes, her face, a blade clearing the sheathe and shining brightly where once there had only been a girl who was nothing but a meaningless body, a blade made of despair and loss and depthless, devouring rage.

"Tell me," she said, and her voice was her voice, young and girlish and powerful. "Tell me who killed my family."

She was standing, her hands at her sides, and her hair was loose about her shoulders and face.

The Headmaster's eyeglasses gleamed in the light of candles as looked at her.

"The people who killed your friends," he said, and, though his voice was barely above a whisper, it was the loudest thing in the world in that cold, still tower, "are a group of wizards and witches who call themselves Death Eaters."

Death Eaters. The skulls on their arms.

"Their leader," said the Headmaster, "is a man who calls himself Voldemort."

People were flinching, shivering, looking away. But Buffy couldn't bring herself to notice more than that.

"Voldemort," she repeated, whispering.

They were all looking at her, Mrs. Weasley's eyes wide and even somewhat frightened, but Buffy didn't care.

The anger pulled at her, pulled her back from the edge of madness. It coiled tightly around her heart, a snake of anguish and hatred that finally, after all those weeks of futile near-insanity, had a name.

The Slayer looked out from her eyes.

"Voldemort," whispered Buffy, and her eyes, for the first time that any of them had seen, were alive.


End file.
